


The Other Game

by supermusicmad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cruciatus, Gen, POV Second Person, The Pool Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermusicmad/pseuds/supermusicmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative version of the ending of The Great Game. With magic this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the meme, in which someone asked for Sherlock getting tortured by the Cruciatus curse. I went a bit over the top. An experiment in second person.

You wake slowly. You really should be getting used to being knocked out and kidnapped by now – it’s almost a regular occurrence since you moved in with Sherlock – but the moment of waking is always drawn-out, groggy, unclear.

Without opening your eyes, you try to clear your mind of the fuzz so you can figure out how you got here. You are not, as far as you can tell, injured. Certainly you don’t have the headache that would accompany any blow strong enough to knock you out. But it doesn't feel like you've been drugged either – there is no lingering taste or smell. You don’t remember anything. The last thing you remember, you were walking to Sarah’s. You were just round the corner from her flat, and then – nothing. And then you woke up here.

Very carefully, you try to move. You’re tied up, unsurprisingly. Your hands are bound behind your back, too tight, pulling uncomfortably at your shoulders, and your ankles are also tied. The knots are – _Christ_ , they’re good. No give in them at all. There’s no way you’re getting these off without something sharp, someone to help or both.

You slowly open one eye a crack. You seem to be in some sort of a bathroom... no, a locker room. You are slumped against a tiled, garishly blue wall, curled on one of the thin silver benches that run around the edge of the room. You can see lockers to one side of you, and straight ahead there is a row of shower cubicles, which would imply you’re in a sporting venue.

The room is empty apart from yourself and two other men. One has short grey hair and looks significantly older than you, but still muscular enough to beat even your considerable frame into submission. The other is skinner, and his face is hidden behind a mop of brown hair, which falls almost to his waist.

They are not the ones who abducted you. No, whoever effected your kidnapping did it with stealth and cunning, and that is not what these men are for. They are guards, most likely hired muscle. Which means this was not opportunistic. This has been planned.

The grey haired one sees that you are awake, and turns around to grin at you. A huge, stupid grin, the sort you’d quite like to punch off his face. “Looky looky, Douglan!” he says to his partner. “Mr Watson’s joined us in the land of the living.”

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” you mumble, testing your voice for the first time since you woke. “I’m a doctor. What the hell am I doing here?”

“Oh, a _doctor_ , are you?” he says, filling the word with disdain as if it’s something to be ashamed of. “Well, I am sorry, _Doctor_ Watson.”

Douglan, the skinny one, gives a theatrical gasp and smirks at his partner. “I din’t realise we got ourselves a _doctor_ , Crummol. A filthy little Muggle doctor, what are we going to do with him?” He sniggers, and Crummol guffaws stupidly in response.

“A what?” you say.

“Muggle. S’what you are, ain’t it?” Douglan spits at you.

You shake your head, giving up on that line of conversation. Either they’re using slang you’ve never heard of, or they’re insane. Or you’re insane. Maybe you were knocked silly when they knocked you unconscious. If they knocked you unconscious.

Oh, God, your head’s spinning. You lean it against the wall and say, “Just – what is going on? What do you want?”

“We don’t want nothing from you, Doctor,” the grey-haired one, Crummol, sneers at you. “We’re just baby-sitting you for a while.” He pauses, looks over at Douglan. They share a smirk, and Crummol reaches into the inside of his battered jacket. “Mind you, no reason we can’t have a little fun with you while you’re here...”

You shrink back a little; whatever this is, it won’t be fun for you-

And Crummol pulls out a stick, about 10 inches long, intricately carved and totally harmless-looking.

“Oh no,” you say drily. “What are you going to do with a twig, poke me in the eye? I am frightened.”

Crummol looks over and catches Douglan’s eye. They smirk at each and Douglan says, almost pityingly, “Muggles.”

You’re about to ask, yet again, what the hell a “Muggle” is, when Crummol points the stick at you and says, “Crucio!”

Everything is on fire. Pain rushes through you like someone’s set your blood alight, and now you’re burning from the inside out. You can’t see, you can’t think, you might be screaming but you can’t hear yourself, your whole world is fire and pain and all you want is for it to end...

And mercifully, it does. You pant out huge breaths and blink the tears out of your watering eyes. You realise you have rolled off the bench and are now curled on the floor, one arm trapped uncomfortably underneath you by the restraints around your wrists. Your shoulder is aching from the impact, but it is nothing compared to the pain you have just experienced. For a moment, you just lie on the floor and breathe, grateful to be alive.

After a little while, voices float into your awareness. Someone is saying, “...Sorry, sir, Mr Moriarty, sir, didn’t mean to...”

“Didn’t mean to what, Crummol?” a sharp, unfamiliar voice replies. “I told you to leave him alone. I told you he was _mine_ , didn’t I? And you, Douglan, I would have expected a little more from you than to go along with this idiot.”

“Sorry, Mr Moriarty,” Douglan said in a cowed voice.

“Hmm. We’ll see how sorry you are later.” There are footsteps, and suddenly a hand on your upper arm. “John?” the unfamiliar voice says quietly. “John Watson?”

You can feel hands pulling away the ropes that tie your ankles. With a great effort, you roll over slightly and look up into the stranger’s face. He has large, dark eyes that are kind in comparison to the dull, cruel look of his henchmen. “What-?” you start to ask. “What just ha-?”

Your eyes start to focus, and you realise that he too has one of those sticks, and he’s pointing it at you. Instinctively, you try to get away, but your limbs won’t co-ordinate and you just writhe uselessly on the floor, panicking.

“Hush, hush, it’s alright,” Moriarty says, kneeling beside you and cupping your face gently in one hand. “This won’t hurt, I promise. Just relax.”

You stop struggling, but can’t quite calm down. Looking again at the man’s face, you realise he is vaguely familiar, but you can’t put your finger on why...

He places the stick against your temple and says, “Imperio.”

Instantly, you relax. Your brain is suddenly clear and completely empty of thought, and it feels wonderful. You don’t have the slightest idea what’s happening, or why you feel so relaxed, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.

_Hang on_ , a hesitant voice says from somewhere at the back of your mind. _Something’s not right about-_

_Stand up._ This is a different voice, the kind voice of Moriarty beside you. It fills your head, much stronger than your own tiny, uncertain words.

But that voice pipes up again. _I don’t want to stand up. There’s something - something not..._

_Shhh, stop thinking, John._ Another wave of relaxation smothers you, and the last hint of your own thought vanishes, leaving your mind blissfully empty. _Just stand up and come with me_ , Moriarty’s voice urges you and, finding no reason not to, you obey.

As he leaves, with you at his heels, Moriarty turns to say something to the other two men. You can’t make out words though; the real world has gone fuzzy around you. Not that it seems to matter too much, of course. Why should it?

You follow him in a brilliant, relaxed daze into a room that you realise vaguely is a swimming pool. Not thinking, you make to cut the corner and almost walk straight into the water. _Walk_ around _the pool_ , the familiar voice says, sounding for the first time a little impatient, and you turn towards the wall and shuffle after Moriarty. He leads you to a door, opens it and beckons you inside.

_Wait in here_ , the voice in your head says. _You will stay here until I instruct you otherwise._

You enter the room and he shuts the door behind you. You are aware of it being a very small room, but you feel too light-headed and serene to take in any more. You just stand there and let your mind float as time becomes meaningless.

After an indeterminable amount of time, you hear noises from the other side of the door. Not that they matter, of course, but a few seconds after comes that voice again from nowhere. _Now, Johnny-boy, open the door and step out._

You reach forward for the door handle, turn it and walk through into the room with the pool.

Sherlock is there.

Something in your head awakes and moans in protest, but over that comes the soft voice of Moriarty. _Repeat after me_ , he tells you, and you do.

“Evening,” you say. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John...” He stares at you for a long second. “What the hell...”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” You watch as he takes a couple of steps towards you, and the spark of awareness in the back of your mind takes in every detail – the way he stares at you without blinking, the way he almost staggers with an emotion you don’t recognise. You can’t think why these things are important. But they are, they’re so, _so_ important. “What would you like me to make him say next?”

Sherlock stands still, confused, and looks around for some unseen enemy. “Gottle a gear,” you repeat helplessly as he stares around. Moriarty’s control over you no longer feels calming and tranquil, it is oppressing and frightening, like a cage, like a barrier separating your body from that bit at the back of your mind, and you are powerless against it. “Gottle a gear. Gottle a gear.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock says, his back now turned to you.

“Nice touch, this. The pool - where little Carl died.” Sherlock turns back to you as you say it, and you study his face, panicked in a way you haven’t seen him before. “I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock says angrily, turning on the spot.

“I gave you my number,” says Moriarty. No longer in your head, outside it. The high, taunting sound of it echoes around the room. “I thought you might call.”

There’s a _pop_ from behind you. Sherlock turns quickly and stares at a point beyond your left shoulder, as Moriarty drawls, “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?”

Sherlock recovers himself slightly and pulls the gun from his pocket, pointing it at Moriarty. “Both,” he says firmly.

The gun flies from Sherlock’s hand and lands with a splash in the pool. Sherlock stares from his empty hand to the gun in the water, and finally back up to Moriarty. “H-how – what did-”

“Jim Moriarty,” he introduces himself. “Hiiii.”

Sherlock says nothing, but continues to stare as vague recognition sparks in his eyes.

“Jim? Jim from the hospital?” Moriarty says mockingly. Sherlock doesn’t react. “Oh, did I make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point.”

Sherlock looks you straight in the eye, just for a second, and your own voice sounds in your head again, faint and weak, but there. _No, Sherlock, I’m here_ , it wants to scream. _Please. Help me..._

Then he looks away, and the moment is gone.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock,” Jim is saying, “just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see.”

“How have you...” You’ve never seen Sherlock speechless before. There’s something inherently wrong about the image. He flounders for a few moments, and then manages to say, “What are you?”

“I’m a wizard, Sherlock, love. Obviously. Don’t tell me you hadn’t figured that one out.” You hear footsteps behind you as Jim approaches. “I have power you couldn’t dream of. Better not worry your pretty little head about it.”

“A...” Sherlock seems to be caught between terror and derision. Does he believe it? _It’s true, Sherlock_ , you think desperately. _It’s all bloody true, believe it, don’t push him, don’t make him hurt you..._

“No-one ever gets to me,” Moriarty continues. “And no-one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock says, trying to keep his voice casual.

“You’ve come the closest,” Moriarty admits. “Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, OK, I did,” Jim says. “But the flirting’s over, Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough now!” Sherlock flinches, and sets his face in a determined expression. “You’ve seen what I can do... I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 6 million Galleons just to get you to come out and play.” The footsteps stop: Jim is stood behind you. “Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim the Muggle – playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

Sherlock ignores the words he doesn’t understand. “People have died,” he says seriously.

“That’s what people DO!” Jim roars. Suddenly, there’s another loud _pop_ and Jim appears out of thin air, standing between you and Sherlock. He’s brandishing the stick you now presume to be a wand in one hand. The sound of his yell echoes around the room threateningly and gradually fades to nothing.

“I will stop you,” Sherlock says.

“No you won’t,” Jim counters simply.

Sherlock has no answer for that. He looks up at you again. “You alright?”

“He won’t answer you unless I tell him to,” Jim says darkly. Sherlock glances from you to him and back again.

_Nod your head, Johnny-boy, there’s a good lad_ , Jim’s voice says in your head, and obediently you do so. Your thoughts are elsewhere.

Sherlock takes a deep breath through his nose and then offers Moriarty the memory stick he’s been holding behind his back. “Take it,” he says roughly.

“Hmm? Oh, that...” Moriarty hisses, stepping forwards to reach his hand out for it. “The missile plans...” He takes them in his hand, raises them to his lips and kisses them, watching Sherlock carefully. “Boring!” With a flick of his wand, the plans fly out of his hand. “I could have got those anywhere.” There is a splash as they join the gun at the bottom of the pool.

“Sherlock, run!”

You’re not quite sure how you got here. All you know is that, since you saw Sherlock, since you walked out and looked at his frightened face, there has been a resistance growing in you. Enough to return you to yourself, piece by piece. And now you’re stood behind Jim Moriarty, throttling him with one arm and holding him still in the other, and somehow, miraculously, he’s not in your head telling you to get off, but that doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is that Sherlock has to get out of there...

Sherlock stares at you, wide-eyed. Jim is struggling in your hold. You pin his arms behind his back.

“Oh, good!” he gasps. “ _Very_ good...”

You notice Sherlock is slowly starting to back away, still staring at you. _Yes, just go_ , you try to urge him silently. _Stop being so bloody proud and get out of here..._

“Isn’t he sweet, I can see why you like having him around,” Moriarty continues sarcastically. “But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal. But – OOPS!” Sherlock has taken his chance, turned round and made a run for the door. Before you can stop him, Jim points his wand from behind his back and shouts, “Crucio!”

The spell hits Sherlock in the back and he staggers forwards into the wall, hitting it hard and sliding down onto the floor. You know exactly what Moriarty’s done to him, it’s what those thugs did to you, and you know just how much it hurts, and Sherlock is writhing on the floor, screaming so loud that the sound echoes off the walls and back at you, again and again...

“I think you’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson,” Moriarty says smugly. Still not able take your eyes off Sherlock, you back away from Jim, raising your hands in surrender. “Gotcha!” he says gleefully and, after admiring Sherlock’s pain for a couple more seconds, flicks his wand and ends it.

The screams cease immediately. Sherlock lies on his back on the ground, breathing heavily and not moving. His face shines with sweat and his eyes are closed. You make a move to run to him – it’s instinct, he’s hurt and you’re a doctor – but Moriarty points the wand at you and you give up meekly. You know to pick your battles.

Moriarty swipes at the front of his jacket with his wand. “Westwood,” he says. Under his breath he mutters something about “Muggles” but you don’t hear what.

He walks towards Sherlock, wand pointed directly at Sherlock’s head. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?”

Sherlock gasps for breath and looks up at the figure looming over him. “Oh, let me guess, I get killed,” he says, false bravado failing to hide the shakiness of his voice.

“Kill you? Uh, no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway, some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no...” Moriarty bends down a little and glides his wand gently over Sherlock’s chest. “If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”

Sherlock stares at the wand pointed at his chest for a couple of seconds. Eventually he says, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

Moriarty lets the wand come to rest over Sherlock’s left side and presses it into his chest, just enough to hurt a little. “But we both know that’s not quite true,” he says coldly.

They stare at each other. Sherlock breaks first, looking away to pull himself into a sitting position against the wall.

“Well,” Jim says, standing upright again and looking around. His eyes fall on you and he smiles, but it’s clear he’s still talking to Sherlock. “I’d better be off. Oh, it’s so nice to have had a proper chat.”

“Wait!” Sherlock says. Moriarty raises his eyebrows and waits for him to continue. “You’re... you’re a wizard,” Sherlock says slowly. “You can do magic, actual... magic. So why do you...?”

“Why do I kill off minor TV personalities? Why do I supply fake paintings to art galleries? Why do I waste my time and powers on other people’s problems?” Moriarty sighs and lets his face break into a grin. “Why does anyone do anything, Sherlock?”

Sherlock studies him, as if seeing him anew for the first time, seeing something beyond the manic grin and the magic wand that he hadn’t noticed before. Eventually he breathily supplies the answer. “Because we’re bored.”

Moriarty does not reply. He walks back towards you, stops in front of you and waves his wand at you casually. You flinch and take a step backwards. Nothing happens. Sneering, Moriarty turns back to Sherlock’s crumpled figure on the floor. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes,” he says scathingly, and then there is a _pop_ and he vanishes.

You wait a couple of seconds to make sure that he is not coming back. Then you run to Sherlock’s side and kneel beside him. “Alright?” you say desperately, as you check his pulse. High, but returning to normal. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock assures you. He is so drained by the effects of – whatever Moriarty did to him – that he doesn’t even attempt to fight you off. At least, until you put a hand either side of his face and try to look into his eyes to check for concussion. “I’m fine, John... John!” He shakes his head from your grasp and pulls himself to his feet. He immediately rushes off to inspect the spot where Moriarty just vanished.

Finally left alone, you suddenly realise how exhausted you are and a wave of dizziness hits you. “Woah, oh, Christ...” you mutter as your legs give out under you and you end up in the same position as Sherlock was, sat on the floor with only the wall supporting you. You close your eyes and fight the light-headedness by heaving a few deep breaths, and eventually it subsides a little.

You open your eyes and see that Sherlock has finished looking for whatever he was looking for – presumably some sort of smoke-and-mirrors behind Moriarty’s tricks – and is now pacing up and down the side of the pool. He sees that you are watching him, but doesn’t stop. “Are you OK?” he asks.

“Me? Fine, yeah, I’m fine.” You shift a little on the floor, trying to get more comfortable, not wanting to stand up just yet. “Fine.”

“John,” Sherlock says, still pacing, looking everywhere in the room except towards you. “That, er... thing that you... that you did, that, um... you offered to do, that was, um...” He flails uselessly with the words, and finishes hopelessly with a muttered, “Good.”

You shrug, casting off his awkward gratitude. “Magic,” you say simply.

“I know.” Sherlock finally stops pacing and looks at you. He’s grinning. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

For a moment the two of you just look at each other. Then you shake your head, smiling slightly at your insane, dangerous, wonderful flatmate, and start to pull yourself back to your feet.

“Sorry boys!” You hear a _pop_ , and your blood runs cold. Jim Moriarty is stood at the far end of the pool. His wand is raised, and now a faint red glow radiates from the tip of it. “I’m _so_ changeable!” he says happily, as the glow starts to grow brighter. “It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.”

He aims at you and Sherlock and pulls his arm back slightly, preparing to strike. “You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but – everything I have to say has already crossed your mind...”

You glance at Sherlock. He is frozen, his brain working furiously, but this time there is no answer, no way out, you’re both going to die...

A door bursts open at Moriarty’s end of the pool. “Stop right there!” shouts a voice, and a tall ginger man steps into the room. He too is a holding a wand and is pointing it squarely at Moriarty. He does not look at you or Sherlock.

Moriarty turns round. “Wealsey!” he says. “Finally caught up with me, have you?”

“The place is surrounded by Aurors, Moriarty,” the newcomer says. “Give yourself up, come with us and no-one gets hurt.”

Moriarty looks around and catches Sherlock’s eye. “Dull,” he says, and flicks his wand.

Everything explodes.

~~~

You wake slowly. You are lying on rubble and under rubble and you ache all over. Groaning, you open your eyes and roll over to see a skinny, dark-haired figure is looming over you.

“Sherlock?” you groan.

“It’s alright. Your friend is going to be OK, don’t worry,” says the man. He is not Sherlock. “Just relax.”

“Hurry up, Harry!” shouts a voice, that of the ginger wizard you saw earlier. The man standing over you looks in the direction of the voice and nods.

He points his wand straight into your face. Before you even have time to start panicking, he says, “ _Obliviate_.”

You sink back into unconsciousness almost immediately as the magic begins to weave around your mind. When you wake up you will remember none of this. You will remember semtex and snipers and an earpiece, and you will be there to comfort Molly while Sherlock starts to investigate the disappearance and criminal activities of Jim from IT.


End file.
